


Let me in before you drown

by Zwergenmaedchen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternative title for this was, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, M/M, Other, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Very minor suicidal ideation though, angst-filled religious imagery, emo Crowley, this is not a happy fic but it all ends well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwergenmaedchen/pseuds/Zwergenmaedchen
Summary: Crowley still remembers being an angel first and trying to be good and to do good for the world and how is he supposed to just watch them suffer,makethem suffer, now? And what of his own suffering? He doesn't want to hurt anyone, really, but he can't stop hurting himself until finally someone notices.





	Let me in before you drown

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I've never written anything so close to my heart before. I'm sorry for making Crowley suffer but I promise it will be alright in the end. If you are triggered by self-harm or (very mild) suicidal ideation, this is not the fic for you, though. Crowley isn't in a good place and we are there with him all through the fic.

He doesn't even realize the first time he does it. It's not on purpose. Of course not. It's just. Well. His nails are sharper than human ones would be. He'd just meant to wipe away a fly from his arm and inadvertently had scratched himself in the process. Nothing bad. But the sting of it is fascinating. He hasn't had this body for long, he's still getting used to feeling it. The fall had been something else. Pain. Immeasurable pain and endless torture upon his arrival in hell, of course. But that had been before this body. Before pain could be physical. He scratches again. Watches a faintly red line form on his skin. When he hears someone approaching, he quickly blows air on his arm to vanish the blemish.

The next time, he just wants to experiment. He wants to see how sharp his nails are. How easily his skin breaks. It's just. Curiosity. For the sake of science. He needs to know how breakable he is, after all, if someone were to come after him.  
It's almost too easy. He tries again. His blood is as red as that of the Israelites' sheep. He swipes his finger through it. Wonders if God would save him, too, if he just could find the right symbol to draw upon his door. 

He usually heals himself afterwards. Sometimes he stops then. Sometimes he just starts again. It makes him lightheaded, more so than a few glasses of wine, and he relishes in the short moments where he feels that maybe he might lose himself. He supposes his vessel isn't as quick to replace the lost blood as he is at closing the wounds. He does stop, eventually. He always does. Because he doesn't want to risk falling again.

It's not that he's not happy on earth. He gets along fine, hardly any work to be done, because the humans tend to do quite horrible things themselves. He takes credit for it and everyone's satisfied. But he still remembers being an angel first and trying to be good and to do good for the world and how is he supposed to just watch them suffer, _make_ them suffer, now? He doesn't find it in him to actively hurt them. It's not his style, he says.

His style has been long sleeves for a while now. Healing himself isn't always a priority because who even cares. It makes him feel more human, to feel this pain, to watch his body change not because someone wills it to, but because that's what human bodies do. Sometimes he slits his skin as deeply as he dares. And then he sits. And watches it heal. Without hastening it. Just watches and waits until he can move his arm without pain again. 

The angel knows. He doesn't know exactly what he knows but he makes it clear he knows something. It takes some decades. But eventually he does get Crowley the holy water. And Crowley, he truly never wanted it for that which Aziraphale fears, but he can't say it hasn't crossed his mind. Well, obviously he could say that, but what's the point in lying to himself at this point? He locks the thermos away. It's got Aziraphale all written over it and Crowley admits he wouldn't want to burden the angel with _this_ should he ever change his mind.

When Aziraphale grips his arm in joy after they successfully evaded the apocalypse, Crowley hisses in pain instinctively, too exhausted to cover up the sound. The angel looks at him inquiringly and he tries to brush it off.

'Oh dear boy, are you hurt? What happened to you?'

'S'nothing.'

'There must be something, Crowley. Tell me.'

The angel looks at him with open care and concern written all over his face. Crowley doesn't answer. He doesn't find the words to explain. Aziraphale doesn't push it, thankfully.

They go back to the bookshop. Crowley is still elated over their successful thwarting of heaven and hell's plan to get rid of them. He's telling Aziraphale about the utter shock he saw on the other angels' faces at "his" supposed burning. Aziraphale has fallen uncharacteristically quiet.

'Crowley,' he starts, then, apparently unsure how to continue, breaks off, takes a deep breath. 

'Angel?' Crowley asks, concerned about the serious tone when they should be celebrating. Is there another plan in place to make sure of their extinction? 

'My dear. How do I start?'

He starts by taking Crowley's hand in both his own. Crowley falls very quiet at that. It's not that they've never touched hands before. But never like this, never so deliberately, so consciously, so tenderly.

Aziraphale keeps holding his hand and lightly, so very lightly traces his fingers up Crowley's arm. Crowley has to suppress a whimper at the gentleness of it all, but he can't hide the goose bumps on his human flesh.

'Crowley. I have been in your body. I have seen you. Do you understand me?'

Crowley doesn't understand. He nods.

Aziraphale reaches up to take off Crowley's glasses, never losing hold of his hand. 

'Look at me. I want you to know that I've seen all of you. I've seen _this_.' His voice becomes a whisper as he smooths his hand down Crowley's arm again. Crowley shivers.

'Take off your jacket, please,' the angel says, almost asks, but Crowley obeys nevertheless. He thinks he understands now but he doesn't know what to do with this understanding. So he just does as he's been told. He's never been good at that but in this moment, it's all he can think to do.

'Thank you, my dear. Very good. Now, let me-'

His fingers are swiftly opening Crowley's cuffs, then rolling up his sleeves. Crowley closes his eyes when Aziraphale exhales. Soft fingertips are ghosting over his bare arms, tracing old and new scars and one or two more recent wounds.

'My dear boy!'

Aziraphale sounds strange and Crowley opens his eyes to find him crying silent tears while continuing to caress Crowley's arms.

'It's alright, angel,' he says and gently reaches out a hand to wipe the tears from Aziraphale's face.

'It is most definitely not alright, Crowley! I am so sorry. I am so sorry that I didn't see it earlier, that I didn't do something to help you.'

'You did,' Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale leans forward, his hands on Crowley's arms again.

In a sudden panic, Crowley cries out: 'Don't!'

'What is it, my dear?'

'Don't do it!'

'Don't do what?'

'You were going to heal them. Don't.'

'I was going to kiss them, dearest. If that's alright with you?'

Crowley gasps. Aziraphale leans further down, so that Crowley can feel his cool breath on his skin, but he's not kissing him, not yet. Crowley gives a shaky nod and only then does Aziraphale press his lips against Crowley's skin for the first time. The angels lips are soft, even softer than his fingertips, and he's trailing kisses down one arm and then up the other, before resting his head on Crowley's shoulder. 

Crowley remembers temptation. He remembers the first time he saw humans lust after each other, saw them give in to their desires and be cast from the Garden. But he's already been cast out, so what's the point in denying himself now? He snakes a hand between their bodies to tilt Aziraphale's face up and look him in the eyes.

'Angel,' he sighs. 'Would you please kiss me?'

The answer is immediate and so much more satisfying than any of the food that Aziraphale regularly begs him try. Aziraphale tastes sweeter and richer than all of them. His lips are full and soft and insistent in their press against his own. The angel smells, for lack of a better word, heavenly and Crowley thinks he might get drunk on feeling like this, surrounded by Aziraphale's strong arms and drowning in his kiss.

He couldn't say for how long they've kissed, they don't technically need to come up for breath. When Aziraphale breaks away from the kiss, Crowley whines in protest but the angel doesn't go far, just tugs Crowley down so they're both sitting on the ground, his arms around Crowley, Crowley's head nestled in the crook of his neck, stroking his hands over Crowley's back without pause.

'Tell me about it?' Aziraphale pleads.

'Forget about it, angel. It doesn't matter.'

'Of course it matters,' Aziraphale says and places the softest kiss on Crowley's head. 'Of course it matters. You matter to me, Crowley dear.'

'I don't know what to say, though. It just. Happened. I can stop it.'

'Well, why didn't you?'

Crowley tries to think about an answer. Tries to think of anything to say other than the truth. Because the truth would hurt Aziraphale and he doesn't want that. Never wanted that but especially not now. 

'Because it was better to feel _something_ than nothing at all.'

'So you don't feel anything besides this- this physical part?'

The angel continues to stroke his back but something's changed. It feels slightly mechanical now, not the warm caress it was just before.

'I- I cannot hnnkkh' Crowley tries, but fails to say what he really wants to say. Because he still doesn't know if it's welcome.

'I don't know what we're doing here, angel. Just. Tell me, what do you want me to say?'

And for once, Aziraphale does. For once the angel actually says it and Crowley feels his heart pick up speed at an alarming rate.

'I want you to tell me that you love me,' Aziraphale says and Crowley's face lights up with a smile that he thought he might've lost somewhere around his fall. 'That is, if you do love me, dear boy.'

'I do, angel. I love you. Aziraphale, I have loved you for 6000 years. Only you.'

'And I love only you, Crowley.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I'd be very glad to hear from you if you liked this! Thanks to Kat for helping me rate and title this 💜 Stole the title from Getaway by Mallory Knox (which you should listen to). *hugs everyone who made it through this angst*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [5 Times Aziraphale Noticed Something Was ‘Off’ and the Time He Realized Why](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992886) by [Lucky (LuckyKid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyKid/pseuds/Lucky)
  * [5 Times Crowley Self Harmed and the First Time Aziraphale Spoke to Him About It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993132) by [Lucky (LuckyKid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyKid/pseuds/Lucky)




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